Of Habits and Appearances
by Iantalia
Summary: To some people we are no more than the sum of our habits and appearances. Set Season 6. Case file. WIP.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Be warned - this is a WIP, people. I don't know where it's going, or if it will ever get there. In short, I'll try my hardest, but updates may be erratic, and it may never finish. Consider yourself told.**

Tony exited the coffee shop, purchases in hand, and wondered briefly why he was bothering.

Habit?

It wasn't like he really _believed _that a round of coffee and donuts was all it would take to heal the fault lines currently criss-crossing through the foundations of the team like some kind of toxic spider web.

Nor was he naïve enough to think that his offerings would be welcomed with open arms. Ten to one, Gibbs would tell him off for time wasting, Ziva would make a snide remark about bribery and McGee – well, McGee would probably think he'd won a battle because it wasn't laced with soap.

Should he..?

Nah. He didn't feel like pranking McGee. It was no fun when it was – well, no _fun_. He kept up with it for form's sake, but instead of entering in to the spirit of the thing, Probie just acted all superior and produced the latest in a long list of surprisingly vicious put downs.

Didn't know where he'd learnt that. He used to be such a _nice_ boy. And for all both Gibbs and himself could wield one liners every bit as well as more conventional weapons, it was actually pretty rare that they would turn the full force on to people in their own inner circle. Not unless someone had _really_ crossed a line.

Yes, Gibbs had a reputation, but he was just being Gibbs, with all the B's, not being _nasty_. All you had to do was watch the man with a suspect to know the difference. Most people just stopped at the reputation, or at the first thing they heard him say, took that as the bottom line. Most people never took the time to learn that the caffeine fiend who terrorised the halls of NCIS was as much of a sniper with words as he had been once with bullets.

He was a _professional_ of put downs. There was none of this indiscriminate stabbing that McGee was at.

He let himself back into the car, dropped his haul on the passenger seat, and pulled back onto the road.

It really _was_ habit. What on earth had happened here? He was still plenty young enough, thank you very much, with a good career, enough money to keep him as well as he liked and his pick of the ladies. He should have the world at his feet, and here he was, going through the motions. When had work become just another _thing_? He loved his job, in the main. At least, he enjoyed what he did. None too keen on the atmosphere most the time.

Now that was a weird thing. Pile the pressure on, and they still worked well together. Very well. That something that clicked in, that brought a phenomenally impressive solve rate, that had beaten the odds more times that any of them had the right to hope for – that was still there. But only when the pressure was on.

The rest of the time? Proof positive that familiarity breeds contempt. He still trusted them in the field. But by God he could do without the bitchiness and the one-upmanship.

Particularly when most of it was aimed at him.

Was he the only one that wanted to go back to how they used to be? While he'd been at sea, first on the Seahawk and then on the Ronald Reagan, he'd missed the team, the camaraderie, the feel of being a part of something, instead of a lone crusader. Maverick cops were all very well in the movies, but this was no movie. Being your own team in the face of uniform disapproval – that had to wear you down, and in short order.

Not that anybody in his team would be about to believe him, but he had no wish to be the lone wolf maverick cop with a grudge. He was quite happy being what he was – the Senior Agent on the top team in the Agency.

Was. Had been. Somehow, once he'd been recalled, nothing had quite been the same. The team had never managed to regain that ability to be more than the sum of its parts. More often than not it was less.

You didn't need to be a profiler to see that. They didn't work _together_ any more – just alongside each other. Ziva and McGee seemed to have an understanding, at least some of the time, but aside from that…

McGee thought he was better than him. Ziva never stopped needling – unless it was to move on to deliberate attempts to provoke. And Gibbs had mood swings – and there was a concept altogether too strange to contemplate. One day he'd be not-quite-smiling at the jokes and leaving Tony to do his thing in the field; the next nothing was good enough, he was verbally dropping him on his ass every five minutes, and woe betide the back of his head should he forget to check in with his crystal ball and not see setbacks coming up before they arrived.

Was he the only one who could see that things were seriously off kilter around here?

Or was he just the only one that cared?

***

He found himself parking up in the garage without any really recollection of the journey in between. With a sigh, he pushed his internal meanderings aside and headed up to the bullpen, offerings of habit in hand.

"_Here_ he is."

These days it was never a good sign when he was the topic of conversation.

"Forget where you work, DiNozzo?"

"Took a pitstop, Boss. Here." He pointed out the cup with the engine oil substitute in it. "Donut?"

Why that should get him one of those long appraising looks he didn't know, but after a moment, the top donut was hooked, and Gibbs went back to the file in front of him.

"Offerings, Tony? You have a need to make peace? Guilty conscience?"

He pasted the goofy smile back on his face, swinging around and offering the bounty. "Any conscience is a good thing, Ziva. You should try it someday." The snipe hit, and she looked decidedly put out. He couldn't bring himself to feel bad about that. He was more annoyed at himself for so easily falling into the new pattern despite knowing it was the wrong thing to do.

McGee took the third cup, peering suspiciously into it, then frowning back at Tony as he took a sip. He looked like he was trying to be intimidating. Tony mentally checked three for three off the list.

He'd thought a lot of things about NCIS over the years. Never once had 'too damn predictable' shown up before.

He sat at his desk with his own cup and donut, and considered screwing up the empty bag and bouncing it off McGee's head. Then he cast a glance across to see Gibbs watching him again, all stern lines and disapproval, and realised this was going to be one of those days where he was a lap down to begin with, and couldn't do right for getting it in the neck.

No sense deliberately provoking the man just yet. Might as well wait until the tension got too much before he drew the fire.

So it was back to the Herold paper trail then. Good job he'd had all that extra sugar to keep him awake.

***

Two hours had passed relatively quietly – partly due to Gibbs presence, partly due to the fact that he finally thought he might be finding a pattern in the mountain of paper they'd commandeered from Montgomery Herold's office, and partly because Tony couldn't find the enthusiasm required to be the on stage entertainment this morning. Let the hecklers find something else to do.

So he'd kept the quips to a minimum, leaving Ziva and McGee to break the silence – usually at his expense.

"You are remarkably quiet this morning, Tony. Are you ill?"

And here we go again. He opened his mouth to respond, only to find McGee beating him to it.

"Don't tease him, Ziva. Our little boy's growing up, that's all."

The sheer effrontery took his breath away, and he leaned back in his seat and put his feet up on the desk while he recovered himself.

"Just a little experiment. Testing my ability to get under a suspect's skin without actually doing anything." Twin suspicious glances. That was better. He carried on. "Can I help it if you two can get distracted without a distraction? I don't do a thing, and _still_ I have so much of your attention – why Probie, Ziva," he drew the names out as long as he could. "should I be flattered?"

He felt the smirk widen when neither had a ready answer, and retrieved the bag from earlier. The second he saw McGee's mouth start to open, he lobbed it a across, scoring a direct hit on the younger man's head. "Score! A Mchole in one!"

"DiNozzo!"

He started at Gibbs bark, and flailed in mid-air for a moment before the chair mercifully decided to tip back in the right direction. Gibbs kept glaring, and he felt the brief flare of good humour slink back into its hole. "Ah – hard at work, Boss."

No answer, and after a moment blue eyes went back to the file and he breathed out again.

Definitely one of those can't win days.

***

Fate was a bitch. McGee had just – _literally_ just – uttered the word that Tony had been thinking for nearly an hour: namely "Lunch?" when Gibbs' phone rang. The three of them listened in to a conversation that took the man just three words:

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"Details?"

Looked like lunch would remain a fond, passing thought.

The call was ended unceremoniously, Gibbs pausing briefly before standing, and the rest of them declining to ask. He took two paces, then glowered at the room in general.

"Scene to look at. If any of you are interested."

There was a definite lack of haste to Gibb's movements.

"Just the scene, Boss?"

"Yep. John Doe found yesterday. PD just identified him as one of ours."

Okay. There was a moment where they all just looked at each other – one of those that jarred these days, because it felt like they were on the same wavelength, and how the hell had not being become standard procedure? Then the Gibbs glare dialled up a notch, and they all started moving at the same time, even as he spoke again.

"Body and files are getting sent over. Meantime, we look over the location."


	2. Chapter 2

Two and a half hours later, and Tony's mood was fast approaching the Gibbs benchmark for gathering menace. It seemed fitting - 'ill-tempered' was more of a career requirement for their team than investigative skills these days. Stood to reason he'd be knocking on the door of turning pro.

Especially with this kind of motivation.

He was cold, he was wet, he was muddy, and he was on a wild goose chase.

What Gibbs had neglected to mention – one of the many things – was that the body in question had been found in the water. Which meant 'looking over the location' actually meant walking the perimeter of the lake, searching for any evidence that might give them a heads up as to where the dumper had been. Because of _course_ PD hadn't found it before they handed the case over. That would qualify as catching a break, and they couldn't be having that, could they?

And really, chasing wild geese would be a breeze compared to this. Needle in a haystack was a better description.

No. It wasn't. That was looking for the dump site in regular conditions. Not in what had been drizzle when they arrived, and had spent the intervening period getting steadily heavier. Not when it had poured with rain last night, and the night before, and on and off for several days before that. Not when it was muddy underfoot, and the wind kept flinging grit in his eyes, and really, James Bond never had this trouble.

Then again, _the_ James Bond was Sean Connery, and Sean Connery was from Scotland, and if Ducky could be believed, this was probably standard operating procedure for the weather there. He was very glad he wasn't Scottish. Where would be the fun in living somewhere where all the girls were neck to toe in heavy duty clothing all year round? Crime against mankind, that was.

He pushed aside yet another damp branch, muttering darkly to himself when the one behind it hit him in the face just to make a point. He daren't look at the bottom of his suit. He could smell some of that mud. He had no interest in inviting depression by looking at what it could do to quality work wear.

It wasn't like he wanted to cut corners. He knew this task was unavoidable. Even if the PD had already found what they were looking for, they would have gone over every inch of it again. There was no substitute for thorough, not for any of them. Gibbs' rules on the matter were unnecessary. He would never trust a case to evidence he hadn't checked for himself to the best of his ability.

Himself, or someone he trusted.

And there, in a nutshell, was the problem. Aside from the wet and the cold and the muddy, at any rate. Too much time to think. He'd not managed to shake off his introspective mood of earlier, and trudging around this perimeter gave him the perfect opportunity for brooding.

_Trust_. A fundamental of any form of teamwork. Cooperation. Division of labour. All participants reading from the same script. Different actors in the same film.

Trouble was, this film was more Police Academy 5 than The Maltese Falcon.

They were supposed to work together, to complement each other, to produce a coherent finished picture where you couldn't see the joins.

Unfortunately, at the moment they were all joins and no ensemble. Gibbs was doing Clint Eastwood in a Western, Ziva was the femme fatale in a Noir, McGee was the straight laced by the book superior in a thousand buddy cop movies – and as for himself, he seemed to be settling for the fall guy in a particularly unfunny comedy.

All in all, it was hardly a surprise that the resulting movie was an incoherent mess of clashing styles.

He had no idea where it had all gone wrong. Somewhere along the line they'd slid onto different pages, and now…

…and now instead of trust, there was doubt. Instead of confidence, there was unease.

It was painfully obvious to Tony that the other two doubted his ability to contribute anything useful to an investigation. They went around him when he wasn't looking and belittled him when he was. All the minutiae of a case was no more than a string of would be insults to pelt him with.

It probably didn't help that he was so quick to get on the defensive and fight back that the whole thing descended into a playground farce in short order. He'd taken to playing down to the stereotype, figuring if he didn't show them anything else it wouldn't hurt when they couldn't see there was more to him than that.

The only time it was different was when it came to getting down and dirty and doing. Then they both deferred to his lead. If we were talking guns and infiltration and fieldwork, apparently _then_ he was worth the time.

He had a really unpleasant suspicion that that might just be so that he was the first one in the firing line – whether the shot belonged to Gibbs, Vance or the bad guy of the moment – if it all went to hell.

And there was the flip side. He trusted them with the casework, but when it came to having his back… He knew they wouldn't do anything to compromise him. They were all too professional for that. But he was a little more unsettled when he was out in the field now. A little more nervous.

It wasn't the danger. The physical threat. That was everyday stuff.

No, the truth was, it could be difficult to come back from working undercover. Just look at the mess with Jeanne for proof of that. It was very easy for the lines to blur and the personalities to cross.

He'd seen good men lost to undercover ops, eventually turning into the people they were trying to take down. He didn't want that.

He was _afraid_ of that.

With Jeanne… he still couldn't work out what had been real and what hadn't, and it scared him more than anything else.

His team was his anchor to prevent him losing himself completely, and honestly – if they didn't know who he was, how could they help him find himself again?

And what if they preferred who he became? What if they didn't want him back? What then?

Just thinking it had him grinding his teeth, an ice cold finger that had nothing at all to do with the weather running up his spine. He hadn't dared pay too much attention to these thoughts, for fear that he wouldn't be able to stop. That he might make a decision he didn't want to make, because he couldn't face the alternatives.

Past time to move away from that topic.

The fact was they had one seriously fucked up set of working relationships, even before you factored Gibbs in. Gibbs, who used to be the single most consistent thing on the planet, and now was habitually wrong-footing the lot of them.

He used to do that to make them learn. Now it just seemed like he did it – because he could. Because it was expected. Because it was a _habit._ The man was distant, and demanding, and constantly in a state of low grade irritation at best. And Tony drew the worst of it. He had always done, right from when there was only him. By the time there was more than that, he'd learnt how to handle it, and he kept on doing so.

And now they were all big enough to take a share, but still it came his way. Because it always had done. Because it was the way things were.

Yet another habit, and one by one they were grinding Tony down.

Somewhere along the line the people he worked with had forgotten that he was a person, not a caricature. They – and he was pretty certain he wasn't exempt from this, either - were all too wrapped up in their own needs to consider anybody else.

A soggier than usual squelch drew his attention downwards, and his brain noted 'Ooh, muddy puddle', just as his foot shouted 'Aargh! Cold and wet, you moron!'.

Damn it. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Well, at least nobody had seen him. With a bit of luck, McGee would have fallen on his ass in it. Probie had form for that.

With a lot of luck, Ziva would have fallen in full stop, and would be wearing nothing but a towel, but he was astute enough to know that he wasn't that fortunate. And even if he was, she'd wade back in rather than let him get a glimpse of towel.

Of course, Gibbs was _The Boss_. Which meant he was nowhere near the water, and no doubt enjoying every second of the fact. In a straight faced, prowling lion kind of way.

Part of him was glad. Gibbs and water had form too, and that wasn't an experience he wanted to relive in a hurry.

He'd gotten so far off his point, he couldn't remember what it was any more. Oh yeah. The futility of looking for the dump site, the pain and misery that was…

Oh. _Hello…_

He crouched down, and looked closer. Then he flicked on the radio.

"Boss?"

"DiNozzo."

"Think I got something. Third of the way down on the east side. Partial footprint and some cloth. Piece of a sheet, possibly."

"Dump site?"

"Could be. Need to look further in, but I don't want to lose the print."

There was no response other than a click. Rude, unmanageable, contrary…

Ah ah, Tony. That way lies pain. Shutteth up, and await thy boss. And do so without the mental curses, or the next thing you know, he's put you on the spot and you've spit out the first thing that comes into your head. And a conversation that goes:

"_What have we got?"_

"_An irascible mentor with authority issues, a lousy temper and a predilection for torturing his subordinates."_

is one that could never end well.

***

Ten increasingly soggy minutes later he heard a bellow from away to his left.

"DiNozzo!"

He was grateful. It gave him the opportunity to let off some of his frustration and annoyance in the return bellow.

"Here!"

A couple of minutes later, Gibbs emerged from the greenery, careful not to disturb anything that might be carrying evidence. Tony looked, _hard_, and couldn't see a speck of mud anywhere. Typical.

He came straight over, leaving the case he was carrying out of the way before getting a closer look at the area Tony pointed out to him, sheltered by the density of the bush.

"You photograph them?"

_No, I thought this camera was just for show and cleavage shots._ "Yes, Boss". He very carefully didn't roll his eyes, which was just as well, as Gibbs shot him a sharp look, very similar to the one he'd just given the evidence.

After a few seconds where they both looked at each other, Gibbs' eyebrows rose.

"I'll get on with bagging and tagging."

"No. Look further in. McGee's on his way across. He'll sort the evidence."

Little Lord Fauntleroy wasn't going to like that. So Tony, how much do we care to bet that you get to break that news?

"PD missed this."

There was that appraising stare again. He had no idea what Gibbs wanted to hear. Then again, he never seemed to these days.

"Not all that surprising if they were sticking to the shoreline. Depends how thorough they were."

"You found it."

Well _that_ could be taken more ways than one. "The tree line's a bit further from the water here. And there's an old fridge and half a table in the water. If people use it as a local tip, stands to reason there's a way in nearby."

"Means that print could be anybody's."

"True. But it's close enough to the piece of sheet to be linked. No sign of them wrapping the fridge in a sheet."

A tilt of the head acknowledged.

"Boss?"

McGee slid carefully into the small clearing. His hair was plastered to his head – the drizzle of when they arrived having long since upgraded to proper rain – and there was a permanent rivulet of water running down his nose and dripping off the end.

Tony noted with satisfaction that he had mud halfway up his calves. It made him feel a lot better about the cold trickle of water down the back of his neck.

"Been paddling, Probie?" Tony grinned at him, getting a sour look in return. Before he could respond though, Gibbs had pointed out the print, and McGee was scurrying to the case.

"Body. Evidence. Dump site. Any of this ringing any bells, DiNozzo?"

Oh, come _on_. Did nobody round here have a sense of humor any more? Had Gibbs instituted a new rule while he was still at sea – never smile, joke, or otherwise show any sign that you're capable of enjoying anything?

Not that it mattered. He could take a hint, when he was hit in the face with one.

He moved towards the back of the clearing, where there was a narrow gap in the trees, and squatted down to take a look, Gibbs leaning over him.

"Could be drag marks, could just be interestingly patterned mud." He photographed it all regardless, before standing up and carrying on.

"Here." He followed the older man across and took a couple more photographs, this time of black paint on a tree. Then he stepped back and took another look, sizing the space up as Gibbs watched him.

"SUV maybe? This widens, so… our guy's driving in, wants to get as close as he can to the shore because the body's heavy, let alone the extra weights to take it down. Keeps coming until he clips the tree. Looking at the gap, if that's from the mirror, it puts the vehicle at about SUV size."

Gibbs looked at the gap, and nodded. "Let's see if there are any tracks."


	3. Chapter 3

3

It was a decidedly sorry looking troupe that trailed back into the office a couple of hours later. Four dripping wet, three liberally doused with mud, two sporting bruises - McGee had eventually succumbed to the order of the universe and slipped on a soggy slope; Tony had tried to stop him and got landed on - and one minus a shoe.

Ziva was _not_ happy. They'd given her the front seat, control of the heater and as wide a berth as could be managed inside a vehicle.

It almost felt normal, and that _almost_ grated and rubbed at Tony's nerves.

They had found no further evidence at the site, aside from some damage to the vegetation which it was impossible to prove had been caused by a vehicle, let alone by a specific one. Now it was over to the PD files, the body, and some root and branch investigative work.

Tony hovered in the garage for a few moments, before catching himself being indecisive. That was a new trait. He'd worked hard at the cocky, self-important image, and it served him well. No way was he going to let uncertainty have enough breathing room to let it become a habit. He refused to let things start getting to him to a degree where it would sap his confidence.

Except he was well aware it already had. Why else would he keep backing off on investigations, goofing around rather than getting involved?

Back on the point – because he wasn't thinking about the differences in himself recently, _no sir-ee_ - and really, there was no point in standing around wondering whether he should go change or not. If he did, no doubt he'd be accused of wasting time better spent working on the case. If he didn't it would more than likely be an exasperated snap about not having the sense he was born with.

He'd feel better being sniped at in dry clothes. He went to change.

***

Ziva was already waiting serenely at her desk when he returned. McGee joined them a couple of minutes later, refusing to look at either one, and they shared a glance behind his back that eighteen months ago would have been the prelude to some good-natured Probie teasing.

"Are you still wound up about-"

"About you dropping me on my ass in the mud yet again? What do you think, Tony?"

Unfortunately, good-natured was no longer in anybody's vocabulary around here.

"I think it's not my fault you haven't mastered walking yet, McMuddy. And I didn't _drop_ you, I tried to _stop_ you."

The younger man snorted derisively. "Tony DiNozzo, boy scout extraordinaire. I don't _think_ so."

Ziva was watching the exchange with interest, and she smirked at the jibe. Tony felt both hit, and the sheer wrongness of it all jarred his mood further.

"You know, I was mostly clean and unbattered before I tried to help you, Probalicious. I'll be sure not to do it again."

"Good. I don't need your kind of help."

His mouth was already open on the way to telling McGee where to shove his attitude, when Gibbs swept past.

"Leave it, DiNozzo."

Just him? Not McGee? 'Cause of course it was all on his shoulders. Why did everybody always assume the worst where he was concerned? Couldn't they at least wait until he did something to earn it?

"McGee – you got the email from PD?"

Golden boy didn't even bother with a reaction, the 'uh-oh' expression there and gone in a flash as he beat a hasty retreat behind his desk.

"Ah…" There was frantic clicking as Gibbs waited in exasperation for an answer. "Yes. Yes, all here."

"Someone's doing their job then."

The smirk fell off Ziva's face. Piercing blue eyes swept them all once, leaving trails of burning in their wake. No-one was suicidal enough to speak.

Gibbs didn't help them out, instead folding his arms and glaring. He settled back into a further bout of exasperated waiting and offered no more pointed comments.

Tony watched McGee and Ziva flicking wary glances across the bullpen, and thought across all the available options.

He came up with nothing clear cut.

Recently, general practice was for Gibbs to expect them to fill in his part of the conversation as well as their own; to know what he wanted before he said so, and have it ready. Why should today be any different?

But every so often something _was_ different, and Gibbs actually wanted them to wait until he gave them his lead to follow, rather than take their own paths. This felt like one of them. So far they had precious little. Running off in random directions wouldn't make a dent.

He waited back, trying not to be too belligerent about it.

McGee was still scrambling around his keyboard. "I'll have it on screen in just a sec…"

"No. Print outs. One each."

The tapping stopped abruptly, and McGee looked vaguely flummoxed. "Print outs?"

Ooh. The sideways stare of doom.

"Ok. Print outs. Coming up."

"Ziva."

Four years, and it still never failed to impress him that she had such close control over her reactions. He _knew_ Gibb's abrupt change of direction startled her, but all there was to be seen was the raise of a dark head from the computer screen.

It was almost as impressive that he could read the minute twitch in her shoulders, the tightening around her eyes and that raised chin to know that she'd been wrong footed.

What he didn't know was how he could read her so well, and yet not understand her at all. His fault? Hers? Or a collective effort from them all?

Then again, if he knew the answer to that, he'd probably be several strides closer to knowing where to step next.

"Take the evidence to Abby and go through it with her. Then come back and go through the file with McGee. Tell me what we have, what we don't and where we go next."

That was as close to speechless as he had ever seen their tame assassin.

"Problem, Officer David?"

She shook her head uncertainly. Tony could sympathise. That had sounded – co-operative. Unusually so. And he wasn't sure what to make of it, which meant Ziva would feel like she was lecturing her way through a field of American idiom and colloquialism.

Normal procedure in the last few months was simple: obey Gibbs' every dictat, spoken or unspoken, without thought or hesitation. Result? They either got it spot on Gibbs-right, and all was quiet. Or they got it wrong, and there was sarcasm and frustration and annoyance.

That pronouncement had sounded perilously like he was resigning the dictatorship and opening this one to the floor. Gibbs had pulled something like this a time or two before, leaving investigations – or parts of them - up to the three of them.

It was never good. It was far too divisive: Ziva, himself, McGee – they all got competitive. _Really_ competitive. _Death Race 2000_ competitive.

Gibbs never used to encourage that. He'd lead by example, and call on all his team's individual strengths, but he never used to play them off against each other.

Then again, that was when you knew where you stood with him. Back then, it was possible to please him. You always knew when he thought you'd done well, even if his methods of demonstrating the fact were – unorthodox.

These days it always felt as if they all constantly had to prove themselves, Abby notwithstanding. To be the best. No – to be _seen_ to be the best. Like they were all on trial for just one place.

He wasn't the only one who'd changed recently, that much was plain. When Tony had first joined NCIS, Gibbs had still been _Gibbs_, but he'd been willing to put his faith in his people. None of this perpetual running off alone, keeping secrets. There had been more to the man than just catching the next bad guy and being bad tempered. Tony knew full well he would never have jacked in Baltimore if that was all there was. Wouldn't have followed him to DC for a job that sounded equal parts Hell and Holy Grail. Wouldn't have _stayed_.

The old Gibbs would never have stooped so low as to assign his people boxes and expect them to stay in them. That second B was getting _way_ out of hand.

"DiNozzo." He'd been expecting it, and stayed lounging back on the edge of his desk as all eyes turned his way – even if two pairs pretended otherwise. Gibbs had the same sharp, speculative look as earlier, and he was still none the wiser as to whether it was good or bad.

"With me."

He fell into step without a word.

***

The elevator stopped almost as soon as it started, and even that seemed boringly predictable. He was living in _tropes_, for God's sake.

But Gibbs said nothing, just ran yet another appraising eye over him. Calm and steady, and for once, not annoyed.

After a while, Tony's feet wanted to shuffle, and his head wanted to dip away. He forced himself not to give in to the fidgets, but stopping himself from breaking the silence was an ask too far.

"You know Boss, you sent Ziva down to Abby. She's going to be mighty pissed if we hog the elevator."

"She can walk."

_Alright…_ "New shoes. She'll be even worse with blisters."

No response. Just more looking. He waited for as long as he could, but that stare was creeping under his skin and making him itch.

"Maybe we should…" he flicked his hand toward the switch, not quite feeling brave enough to actually propose they carry on with the case.

"Maybe."

But he didn't do anything, and Tony was back to the definitely not belligerent waiting.

More seconds crawled by, and Gibbs hadn't moved, and Tony was going to have to grab the bull by the horns.

"If you're waiting on me, you're gonna have to give me a clue."

The head dropped to one side. "You used to ask."

So we're doing cryptic. And it's probably not long until creepy waiting Gibbs morphs into annoyed why-haven't-you-worked-it-out-yet? Gibbs.

He used to ask? He used to do a lot of things. They all used to do a lot of things that quite simply didn't fit anymore. McGee used to relax. Ziva used to listen. Gibbs used to understand _team_.

Of course, it fitted the profile that he was the only one getting singled out for interrogation.

He used to ask? Ask what? What was there to ask?

Just one thing.

"I figured I'd find out when we got there."

A twitch of lips betrayed an approval that seemed to have been missing for some time. "You used to _ask_."

_Ok_. Never let it be said that he was completely oblivious. "Fine." He sighed heavily, held his breath for a moment, and then relaxed again when Gibbs didn't call him on it. "Where're we going, Boss?"

Stupidly, saying it out loud made a difference. It was familiar, and comfortable, in a way that everything didn't seem to have been for a long time. He bounced on his toes a couple of times, and waited for the answer.

"You'll find out when we get there." Gibbs leaned over and flicked the switch again, leaving Tony staring at his ear in confusion, and irritation – and amusement.

Somewhere between the bullpen and here they'd taken a leftward shuffle into the surreal, and he had no idea why. But it wasn't predictable, and that was good.


End file.
